Sherlock: Golden Keys & Forgotten Things
by xxyzz
Summary: A little boy loses his best friend, home and his life was threatened, all by a family member. To protect himself, he erases all these memories and replaces it with a dog. The adult Sherlock needs to know what the little boy couldn't. What does Mycroft tell him about that time? Offshoot of: Sherlock: Count Down to Go.


_A little boy loses his best friend and his home, plus his life had expressly been threatened—and the person who did it lives with him. This was all replaced by a pet that never existed._

 _Years later, the story comes crashing down around him, but the details are still missing. A puzzle has been framed in, but the picture is woefully incomplete. What happened during that time? How did it happen? Who all were involved?_

 _Those were part of the questions I asked myself. In my previous story I had a section where the brothers talked alone about these things, but at the time I didn't eavesdrop on the entire conversation. The more I thought about it the more I wanted to fill in what could have happened._

 _This started out to be a fairly short story but grew out of all expected proportion, and at times the characters said things that I did not expect that they would. And the more that came out, the less extreme Sherlock's response as a little boy seemed._

 _Even though this is fantastic in its scope, I hope that it is realistic in its application._

 _As usual, the story is complete. So take your time with it. It's not as long as some of the other stories however. This story is an offshoot from, Sherlock: Countdown to Go._

 _And, as always, please forgiven any errors._

 _Of course, I own nothing. BBC Sherlock and ACD canon are places I play._

 _I hope that you will enjoy the story._

Funnily enough, Sherlock had actually asked, according to his fashion, that if Mycroft didn't have to leave soon after the meal perhaps they could spend time together and enjoy the evening on the patio and discuss a few sundry things.

It came out as: "If you don't have any coups on schedule for this evening, perhaps we could see our way clear to culling some of the mess left on our doorstep with this latest catastrophe?"

There were benefits in being well-versed in Sherlockese.

Soon after the meal and the "house-tour," the brothers locked eyes briefly and quietly separated themselves from the group. Sherlock made it to the patio first.

"So, brother mine, what brings us out here this fine evening?" Mycroft asked as he sat in the remaining chair.

"Meaning I can't spend time with my _frater antenatus_?

"You mean your only brother—but older is as good as anything."

"Mmm." It came out a low rumble.

Then a sound across the way drew both of the brothers' attention and they went silent, concentrating. An urban fox, possibly vixen, had—climbed a—ladder against a house, causing them both to crash into patio furniture—the scattering noise it made when it ran off was easy enough to identify. Some food scent must have drawn it in.

Curiosity sated, both brothers relaxed. Sherlock placed his hand on the small table between them, studying it carefully, "'Brother mine,' you say that often."

"I say it because it's true. We are brothers are we not?"

Sherlock turned his head completely away from Mycroft, and began tapping his middle finger on the table, before cutting his eyes back to his brother, "WE are brothers _and_ a sister. A fact that continues to surprise me no matter how much I try to not to be." His finger continued to telegraph his emotional disturbance about that before he clenched it tight as he looked back. "Did all of you decide collectively to not remind me of what happened? Was it funny to watch me pine over the loss of a dog?"

"There was nothing funny about any of it. But it was only after you deleted—"

"I've deleted plenty of things—including most of what you say on regular basis. I've never become delusional." He huffed, threw his head up, and rolled his eyes around with an exaggerated air, "At least I—but who knows? Maybe there are more siblings? Did Eurus have a twin? Am I actually adopted? Because that's a story I could actually believe—"

"Stop it." Mycroft's voice was equal parts annoyance and shame, his eyes pleading for patience, "You were inconsolable Sherlock—it grew inside you like a cancer. When Victor disappeared you looked for him _daily_. Even when the searches stopped you couldn't be, only made worse by Eurus taunting you with that song of hers. Finally one day we had to go looking for you because you hadn't come in to eat. We called for you over and over, with no response, and we were becoming truly frightened when we found you in the woods. You didn't acknowledge us even then, you were just were sitting there, in a clump of fallen trees, beyond tears. Mummy tried to reach you, father did also. The only person you responded to was me, and that wasn't much, so I was the one who carried you home, you were limp as a rag doll in my arms. Somewhere along the way you whispered in my ear: 'Why did she take my friend away—?'" Mycroft stopped talking abruptly, looking at the tip of his shoe for long seconds. He rarely let that pain reach him anymore and it was threatening to drag him under. He couldn't let that happen, so only when he felt himself back in control did he lift head again.

"With Victor gone Eurus fully expected you to return to your position as her regular playmate. She didn't understand why you were lying in bed all day. Or when you did get up why you stayed by yourself in your room and wouldn't let her in. Mother and father never believed she'd done anything other than torment you about Victor's disappearance. They tried to make you believe that. But you'd stopped believing…as did I." Sherlock watched as Mycroft spun the ring on his finger a time or two, "So there was nothing our parents could do to make you play with her. No punishment. No threat. You wouldn't eat for days to avoid sitting at the same table with her, until finally I offered to sit with you—alone—which worked, some. If it was just me in the room, you would eat a little something. If we were all together in the sitting room you would glue yourself to my side. And if I left the room, you did too. Eurus grew frustrated; but she became furious when she realized the _only_ person you'd willingly spend any time with—was me.

Mycroft gave his brother a quirky half smile at Sherlock's genuinely surprised expression, "Shocking I know. It was a difficult position to be in. Both Eurus and you were upset with our parents. Our parents looked to me as though I was somehow able to fix the whole debacle or somehow making it worse. Then there were times when Eurus watched me, as I know to be the truth now, with a truly murderous eye—and yes I was worried, but what was uppermost in my mind was that school was starting soon—I'd be gone. How was I going to protect you? Especially since our parents didn't see the danger? That's when I started consulting Uncle Rudy in earnest."

Mycroft took a deep breath and looked out into the coming night, "Not too long after that our home became a burnt out shell." Looking at his brother he could see his frustration at not being able to recall that memory, but he didn't wish him that burden. "Eurus' match did more than burn the house—it laid the situation bare also, which I must say was rather a huge relief. Our parents couldn't have blinders on any more about her character, and while they still didn't believe that she made a child disappear, they knew that you had a right to be afraid. And after a long conversation with Uncle Rudy, that I instigated, they found a facility that was versed in child sociopathic issues. It was live-in, and expensive, but since there was a very real chance that they could end up losing their entire family, and because Uncle Rudy helped greatly with the expense, they moved her in."

Sherlock watched as a memory passed across Mycroft's face, "That was not a good day."

Then Mycroft looked up and away, not adding another word about what that entailed.

"They took you along at first when visiting Euri—," Mycroft stopped, overcome with the impact of a "deleted memory," he thought aloud, "My— that is a name I haven't used in an age," before he cleared his mind with a head shake and continued, "Anyway that was short lived. I wasn't told at the time what went on during that last visit, and I was strictly forbidden to come along, but after they brought you home—sedated—you never returned. I did overhear a conversation mummy had with one of Euri's doctors—one she did not get upper hand on, and from what I gathered, he told her unless they wanted to put you in the room next door to our sister, they'd keep you two separated until some progress had been made in calming our sister's sociopathic tendencies."

Sherlock looked up: "She had a blue airplane. I remember that."

The left turn in the conversation was sudden, but his brother smiled to encourage him, "Indeed. Do you remember anything else?"

"I remember being near the water, and Victor—Victor and I playing, Eurus with her airplane and a picnic with all of us." He sighed, "—and I still see Redbeard."

Mycroft went to answer the question he was really asking, "At some point you simply didn't mention Victor anymore. I think that we were too happy to have a breather in the madness to think about when that started or what it meant. What we _did_ notice is when you spontaneously passed out when mummy talked about Eurus in your presence—something about a gift she was going to take her—anyway, you dropped to the floor like dead weight. You thought they were taking you back to see her. After that, it was verboten to speak of her at all."

Mycroft went quiet after that, sitting with his thoughts until his brother turned to look at him, he could tell expanded ideas and realizations were showing on his face before he decided to look up, "I assume you don't remember Sherlock, but we actually lived with Uncle Rudy for a few weeks when this was all going on. We had no home, were trying to salvage what was left from the old one and we were searching for both a place to live and somewhere to place Euri. You were going from extreme mania to catatonic silence and we were afraid we'd have to find care for you also. Not to mention the ever present specter of your missing friend hanging over us. You not mentioning Victor by name was a burden we didn't miss."

"Finally we moved into the new home about a week before it was time for me to leave. I'd be lying if I said I didn't silently approve when I noticed that I didn't see pictures of our sister in what was left of our effects, and I'd also be lying if I said that going off to school wasn't a solace for me. Eurus had been placed. We had a new home. You were doing better and I thought you would eventually…be at peace with what happened. So I settled into my studies thinking the worst was behind us. It was nearing winter break when a message was waiting for me when I returned to the residence hall. ""Please call you parents immediately," was all it said. I thought it was going to be about you."

The older brother again went silent for a time again, looking back at his shoes. He remembered at the time his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach and nearly falling into a chair because his knees had gone weak, bringing his head to his knees while the woman in the office asked him if he was okay. He nodded while trying to will the tremors going through his body to stop. It was the first time he feared that, because he hadn't been there, his brother might be gone. Even now it was reassuring to look over into his brother's aquamarine eyes, "It's not the correct thing to say, but it was a consolation to hear Eurus was gone—and at the time I did believe she was gone also. But, because the merest mention of her put you into a state where you stopped engaging, everyone agreed it was best to keep you from the rest of the proceedings. Grandmère Vernet collected you and you spent close to two months in the south of France.

Sherlock's head popped up, "I remember that." Then his eyes began to dart about as though he was actually watching old information being re-uploaded to his server. Moments later he froze, eyes wide. "Gaël." A strange look came over his face, "Gaël. Oh, of course." Then long moments went on while he was immersed in another time, the other brother waited patiently. When he finally broke free from the past he turned to Mycroft, "Do you remember gra-mère's groundsman?"

Though confused by this new turn, the brother nodded thoughtfully, "Gaël Roche? Yes, of course I do. What made you think about him?"

"I remember spending a lot of time with Gaël when I was with gra-mère. He always had hunting dogs. Weimaraners were his favorites as I remember. But at that time—"

Mycroft began to understand where this was going, "He—he had an Irish Setter?"

Sherlock nodded, "—with silky long featherings—"

"—that reminded you of a beard."

They both sat back, eyes wide with new information to absorb, in perfect silence to the outside world, while their inner worlds were noisy with fresh details to sort through. Sherlock, while still trying to completely understand was happy to now have somewhere to start.

When he had sorted through this new information Sherlock looked over at his brother; and he knew Mycroft had been waiting for him. He was embarrassed, but he had no one else to turn to, and he had to know:

"When did you learn that Eurus was alive?"

"While I was finishing my undergraduate degree. I was working closely with uncle at this time and he took me along to review the condition of one the facilities he oversaw—Sherrinford. Imagine landing at that place for the first time, thinking you were rising in your levels of responsibility, to be slammed back down to the ground with the past. Uncle Rudy brought me into a room, turned on a monitor and there she was madly playing her violin. Then she stopped, stared up at the camera, lifted her violin again and began to play Nocturne no. 20. Uncle Rudy saw my face and made it quite clear to me that undoing what had been done would be considered treason and no concessions would be made to me because of him."

"So, after I had been thoroughly threatened, our uncle began to explain his reasoning for what he'd done. How he felt that Euri had been a burden to us, but she could be a benefit to the Crown. He decided this after he had visited her multiple times on his own while she was in care." He noted Sherlock's scowl but continued, "He felt that our parents were never going to understand the true danger she posed, even from a care facility."

Mycroft looked down at his hands. "What tipped the balance I later learned was she glimpsed his newspaper once and he read an article about an explosion to her that she requested, then proceeded to explain the path the bomber would have taken to get away and how to mostly likely find the culprit. It seems between that, the conversations I had with him and his own visits with our sister that he felt he was fully within his rights to "relieve" us of troubles."

"You told him what you did the help us—to help me."

Mycroft knew his brother sensed his guilt that he unwittingly laid the groundwork for his uncle's actions, and only nodded in reply, before looking up again. "Anyway, after that day I replaced him as primary minder and keeper of Eurus, which I will continue to do. At least I think I will—the questions have been coming fast and furious of late and it seems now nobody knew the full nature of what was going on at Sherrinford—except me." The younger brother looked shocked.

"Insects," Sherlock ground out, "scurrying for the dark the second light shines on them. Is Lady Smallwood included in this?"

"She may not have a choice whether she's in it or not."

"She has a choice. They all do. And they'd do well to make the right one."

The older brother sighed, "Remember brother, you're only sitting here by their good graces."

"I'm sitting here because they needed to use me. The same way they used my sister." The detective cut his eyes at the British Government, "And like it or not, brother, the way they used you. Uncle Rudy knew you'd be more powerful than he ever dreamt of being. He had to indoctrinate you with the importance of keeping his secret before that happened. The Mycroft I know wouldn't have stood for what he found if he'd been in a real position of power. Rudy and rest of his skulking lot had to have you convinced of their superiority and right. That's why they struck when you were young, it was the only way they could do it."

Mycroft blinked several times. Sherlock in his powerful low voice continued on.

"They will not succeed in offering you up on the altar," he said emphatically, "our family is fresh out of tribute! Any trouble they try to make I will visit back on them—I promise you that!"

Shocked, Mycroft strove for levity, but it hardly reached his voice, "I didn't know you cared."

"You're a busybody, know-it-all git. Sticking your nose in where it isn't wanted and doesn't belong. But even I know you are a product of, not just your biology, but your circumstances just as the rest of us. We did not choose the circumstances and choices we made in response to them were not always the right ones, but that does not mean that people who saw advantage in those circumstances, and exploited them, now get to sit in judgment of us!"

After a moment to breathe he continued, "You will not be left holding their dirty bag of secrets. And my sister will not live as a leper anymore—I will be there for her." Sherlock looked down to his shoes this time, "I was stupid enough to think that I could carry the weight of their secrets. I was wrong. But I will spill them through the streets of London and into the House of Lords itself, and die happily doing it, before I let them keep things status quo for _them_."

The brothers' eyes locked together. Mycroft felt his heart tighten in his chest, "I hope it may not come to that. Too much has been lost already."

"It _will_ _not_ come to that."

The older brother saw his brother's determination and knew that he matched his feelings word for word. No one was going to be allowed to destroy his family, but he never thought he'd hear his feelings come from his brother's mouth. The flashes of insight the man had! Within moments of hearing the details he had lasered through years of tripe and exposed thoughts that had never occurred to him—but had the awful smell of truth.

Then he was hit with a new thought that made him sit back. Would he have striven as hard to get to where he was now if not to protect his family? He knew he was a driven man, many of his deeds known to himself—but really—two little boys and a girl, did it really all come down to that? The whole of his life—their lives—all those experiences contained in the size of a nursery? Poor Victor, what if someone had been there to protect him? What would their lives have been like?

"Tell me about him."

Mycroft tilted his head as he looked at his brother. The mental zigzags the man made were enough to give him whiplash, but this he did owe him, "I can tell you what I know, but you were my little brother, your friend was not my concern, besides the times you two would sets your sights on me, making me an unwilling victim of your games."

"We were good at that I assume?"

"World class."

"The younger man smiled and Mycroft felt his heart swell at the sight of it. "I actually think I know why you two became such fast friends. You both had imaginations so vivid that it was hard not to see the dragons you chased."

A naughty gleam shown in Sherlock's eyes "—or the whales."

Mycroft's eyes widened, "You've been holding out on me."

Sherlock gifted him with the biggest genuine smile he'd seen his brother wear in years, "Actually not until just this moment. I seem to remember at the picnic Victor and I launching ourselves at you and threatening to use your teeth for scrimshaw and then make our fortunes selling your body for whale oil."

Mycroft scowled, both knew his heart wasn't in it, "You two were truly vermin at times. Invading my privacy, insisting on launching your dirty bodies at me all the while mummy insisting you just wanted to "play" with me. And I don't think either of you had heard of the concept of using your 'indoor voice' anywhere." His voice softened, "Reading to you two was often the only way to get any peace. You two seemed to like that." He cut his eye to his brother, "And I'll have you know that I repaid in kind for that ambush. Do you recall misplacing those wooden swords of yours you attacked me with?"

It was Sherlock's turn to scrunch his face in concentration. "Swords. Wooden swords. We…couldn't find them after lunch. We, we went to all the places we could remember being…and—YOU!" Sherlock looked up to see Mycroft at his self-satisfied best. "We found them near the water, but before we could get back up the bank we slid into the drink!"

"It was a slippery area. Helped along with a few extra buckets of water and muck." Mycroft laughed at Sherlock's outraged expression, "Oh don't worry. I wouldn't have you come to lasting harm. I made sure to be careful where I exacted my revenge."

"Mother saw us and cut the picnic short just so she could drag us back home for baths."

"It was nearing the end of the day anyway."

"We wanted to search for beetles!" Sherlock stopped and thought for a moment when he heard himself. "Yes. We were going to collect bugs to study—and to put in your bed." The smile faded, "How could I have forgotten him?"

Mycroft softly shook his head, "When you returned home from grandmère, you kept saying to our parents how much you missed Redbeard. They knew nothing of the dog, and we all knew that was Victor's name in your games. They thought that this was the only way you could speak of your friend, and that sounded perfectly plausible when they told me. It was during the spring term that I realized that you weren't speaking about a boy at all. But no one else had noticed.

 _"_ _Redbeard loved the water."_

 _"_ _Did he now?_

 _"_ _Yeah. I throwed a ball in and he'd go back for it all afternoon."_

 _"_ _Well, that wasn't a nice thing to do to your friend."_

 _"_ _But he liked it! He would chase the dragons from the sea and we would try to catch them before they flew off to their dragon nests. If you catch them before they take off they have to give you gold to let them go."_

 _Mycroft tried to remember a situation in anyway similar to what he was hearing. And what were "dragons"—maybe geese? "And how were two boys to catch these dragons?"_

 _"_ _Redbeard's not a boy! Well he was a boy, but a boy-dog. And he's fast! He jumped up and catched loads of birds. Dragons are slower than birds. He shoulda catched the dragons."_

 _Sherlock said the words with finality and continued playing with his food instead of eating it, while Mycroft laid his head in his hand, staring at the boy as he finally took a bite of his sandwich. "Had no one heard this before him? Weren't they listening?" he kept thinking to himself. He had seen the place they'd taken Eurus to and he was certain his brother wouldn't survive it._

Mycroft's frustration still carried through as he continued, "After that I contacted our uncle immediately. You hadn't cooperated with any of the previous "help" that Mum and Father attempted at in my absence so we devised our own—therapy—which worked fine for the time…" the older man realized where he was heading now and became more measured with his words, "We went to our uncle's and the therapist watched us interact, the three of us, from a monitor in a different room, he told us what to ask and coached our behavior, that's how we found out that you had no memory of either Eurus or Victor, and that Redbeard the dog somehow supplanted everything that had happened."

Sherlock eyes rolled around in his head. He was insulted and full of indignation at what they'd done. Mycroft's expression appealed for favor:

"In a different day and age the situation may have been handled in a more straight forward manner, but at the time the question was: 'what was the point?' You were doing as well as could be expected. You were sleeping better, you actually ate some. The idea was that someday you'd recollect the memories when you were able to."

The younger brother shook his head. So many conflicting emotions, "There are only bits of any of that in my memory."

Mycroft knew why that was. He was highly disinclined to pursue it. "You found a way to hold on to Victor. I find that amazing, even now. You could not bring yourself to remember Eurus, but you found a way to remember your friend."

"—as a dog."

"Sherlock—you were in short-pants, every ounce as stubborn as you are now and had no way of bringing your friend back; all the while being tormented by someone you could not get away from. The whole situation was intolerable for you. I can say this now—for a time, I believe you wanted death. The appearance of "Redbeard" was the beginning of you wanting to live again, or at the very least, not wanting to die. I don't mock that—not at all, neither should you."

But he couldn't be cowed and shot back, "So what was the point of asking me about Redbeard all these years if you weren't mocking me?"

The British Government raised his eyebrows and shifted his head side to side before crossing his legs in the other direction, "I told you before, I just wanted to see where you were. Redbeard, or Victor, was the pinnacle of friendship for you for most of your life. To see how you react to loss in relation to that told me how stable you were, or how dangerous the situation was becoming for you. Your general annoyance was always a good sign and kept me informed if you didn't behave to form." Mycroft lowered his head and gave his brother an under-eyed look, "I have made mistakes in regard to you, which I can never change. My being "there" for you wasn't always done well, Sherlock, but I could not do nothing, and whatever, in all that, may have lead you to be sitting across from me today—makes it hard for me to be completely remorseful with what I did. I would do many things differently if that were possible, but if any change resulted in you not being here—I would do it all again."

Sherlock frowned, it directed mainly to himself. What Mycroft had said…he didn't want to be touched by it. He wanted to be angry. He managed a low-grade snarl, "You need definite improvement in your apologizing skills."

Mycroft gave him a knowing look, "I don't recall apologizing."

A voice from the kitchen veered their attention.

"You have no faith in him!" Molly teased what appeared to be Lestrade.

From the corner of his eye the detective saw Greg grinning across at Molly who was smiling brilliantly back. She had been teasing him, and Greg was teasing back: "Oh there's no faulting his ego, I mean look who he hangs around," he waved his hand towards the back door, "but Sherlock's not 19 stone and built like a freight train. Ego only gets you so far."

Sherlock looked back at the mention of his name. Molly had the complete attention of Greg and John. Greg's smile was having a powerful effect on her. She seemed to blossom under the effects of it. There was nothing mousy about the woman responding to his appreciative gaze—but she leaned in John's direction. But who couldn't? John was the personification of strength in all circumstances. Whether a child or a major, John always provided a safe haven to all who looked for one. Sherlock wondered on that a moment or two. Yes—it wasn't inconceivable that she too would see the benefits of that—and that would be fine.

He turned back to find his brother searching his face, trying to find everything that Sherlock was hoping to accomplish. The thought of it annoyed him greatly and he showed it on his face.

"I'd ask what you've done with my brother, but I think I prefer you." It was said with a snarky tone and arrogant inflection. Sherlock felt hot resentment. If it was last thing he did, one day he _would_ dump Mycroft into the Thames.

"There are times…."

"I know what you're doing and laud your efforts; I even think you have a high chance of success."

"Really, Mycroft! Just because we happen—"

"— _We_ happen to be brothers. Isn't that what this time out here has been about?"

Thinking about his brother's new question deflated him some, and the detective decided to look out into the strip of yard, still twice the size of anything that Mrs. Hudson could offer, yet he secretly hoped that John might see clear to give it up soon, "We are helpless worms on someone else's hook most of the time, that's what we are." Then he looked Mycroft's way without actually looking at him, "I want us done with this—all of us. This half-life has gone on long enough."

"So that's why you're doing this."

"I'm not doing anything. I'm just…presenting the possibilities."

"I see. And if things do happen?"

"Then I hope they happen well."

"You do realize that instead of—"

"Yes, yes, Mycroft, I have thought of that. But in all honesty, I can't find fault with it. It works on paper anyway."

"It might be awkward."

"Oh, it might have been once, but I don't think so now." Sherlock smiled at nothing in particular, "They all care so much, don't they? There must be something wrong with us."

"All hearts are indeed broken in the end, my brother. Caring often is not an advantage. However—where would we be now without them?"

Sherlock nodded once, again towards the yard, but now he turned towards his brother, "I'm going to talk them 'round, mother and father. They'll listen to me."

His brother raised an eyebrow, "You're confident in your abilities."

"Well, now that I'm the good son, I should use my powers for good."

Mycroft closed his eyes and tried hard, but could not keep a smile from spreading over his face. He shook his head one moment and nodded slowly the next. So many times he thought this day was beyond them.

"And while I'm doing good—another thing."

"Which is?"

"Bring Anthea out of the shadows, for both your sakes. Lady Smallwood will understand."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I do want the old brother back."

Sherlock grinned, "No you don't."

Mycroft shook his head with the slightest smile, "No, I don't."

Then there was silence, each alone with their thoughts, together. As comfortable and complete a time together as either could ever remember having. It was only when John roused them out of their heads that they knew it was getting cold and dark. Captain John was never completely off duty, and certainly wasn't above a dressing down and bribery as needed to get them settled in the house. Mycroft and Sherlock gave each other a familial look before they got up from their patio retreat. John gave them a sharp nod of approval before turning back into the kitchen.

"Is he always that bossy?" the older brother quipped.

"Trust me, you do not know the half." And they grinned as they went in.

Mycroft then saw something that he replayed in his mind in detail as he rode away that night, and remembered into the future.

John was trying to keep Rosie entertained, but it was getting late and she was getting restless. He even managed to pull her chair by the counter so he could continue setting up the coffeemaker, but was barely able to keep little Rosie from climbing out of her chair and tipping it, and herself, to the floor.

Then she heard the back door close, she looked up and her eyes lit up with hope, little hands going straight in the air, tiny fingers grabbing madly.

But it was Sherlock's face, he just caught a bit of profile, but he was not mistaken, the way his cheeks lifted and pulled back, the tightness in the angle of the jaw—it was love for her, and pride, at being so loved back. He dropped the expression almost immediately but he saw it, and certainly Rosie did also as she stretched her whole little body to meet him. Sherlock strode, yes strode, right up to her, confidently lifting her up, swinging her up onto a non-existent hip and continuing on his way, Rosie's hand cupping around the back of his upper arm as they left the room. So many little memories of his baby brother reaching out to him, and the love and pride he felt flooded back. Had he not felt John looking at him, _deducing_ his amazement at seeing how much Sherlock had matured, he might have followed him to see how they were together. Was it anything like he and Sherlock once were?

The problem with helping someone with their memories is that you end up remembering things yourself. Looking out of the window as he was being driven away he was more than a little aware of that. In fact, memories he'd long since relegated to the dark corner of a room labeled "Thing Best Forgotten" had been thoroughly dusted off and were being paraded in front of his eyes as shiny as the day they were placed there, obscuring the good ones he's had a chance to create that evening.

He could say that he was protecting Sherlock a bit longer by not going into those painful truths, but that wasn't the case. He was being selfish. The brother he spent the evening with was the one he'd wanted to meet his entire life, and it was the most enjoyable time they'd had together—bar none. Not since they both were young had he felt his brother's love for him the way he did tonight. He just wanted that evening to be untarnished by the acrimony and antagonism that characterized the majority of their relationship. The nips they took at each other was part of the charm of their brotherhood, but somewhere along the way the corner always turned and it never failed to end in bitterness if not downright contempt at times.

He accepted the nips; that meant he was still willing to engage. And Mycroft knew he gave as good as he got. As long as they had their fractured form of communication there was hope, even with the pain it caused. A Sherlock who had no use for you was like liquid nitrogen, a freeze that burned until it destroyed and he couldn't let that happen. But there had been costs to that over the years. So many scars. But he couldn't imagine his life without him. He wished he would have had the sense to say that then.

 _There wasn't enough time for all this. How was he going to get his brother on some sort of even footing in a few short days when his parents couldn't manage it and they were here on a daily basis? He thought they had been listening, he trusted to that. He'd been foolish enough to believe what he had been told. And here he was again trying to handle what should have been taken care of by THEM._

 _His Easter break was supposed to be spent shadowing his uncle Rudy at low-level meetings and events, things that were just supposed to give him a taste of what was to come. Then the headmaster of his school had invited him and top students to a weekend symposium event with chancellors, provosts, deans and presidents from varying universities to talk about the future of education and their place in it. Only students finishing their secondary education got invited to these, he'd been specially selected. This invite had been important. Plus, he'd just learned he was additionally invited to a private side meeting of selected students to discuss their education goals._

 _It had only been the second day of the break when Sherlock began to spout off about 'Redbeard' the dog. When he understood that this was his baby brother's new truth he was horrified and dismayed. What in the name of all that was good had happened? And why didn't they hear this before? But the more he began to gingerly question his brother the more he knew that unless you asked the right sort of questions you'd wouldn't necessarily put this together. Who would think that Sherlock's best friend was now a dog in his mind?_

 _Still, every day they were there. University trained people, one supposedly of superior intellect. Did they just brush off anything that sounded strange? They had to have. Two days in and he knew something wasn't right. He'd gone straight to Uncle Rudy's house for the weekend when he left for break and only gotten to spend Monday with him at his office. The weekend had raised his spirits and aspirations. Coming "home" had offered none of the same charm. But had wanted to see Sherlock, and he figured the two days that he planned to spend with him before going back to his uncle would hold him until he returned the next week._

 _But he wasn't doing any of the things planned during this break. He now had to find out if his brother had completely lost the plot or if there was something that could be done. The unfairness of it all was suffocating. Still, the "top" mental care hospital for children had left a lot to be desired when Euri was there and now that place had been turned to ashes. He couldn't lose Sherlock to a place like that if he could help it. He knew his spirit wouldn't bear it._

 _So in frustration with his parents, the next day he'd left early, only leaving a note on the kitchen table, and went straight to uncle Rudy's home before he could leave for the office with the new information. They were of the same mind on so many things, how was it that he was not his son? Immediately they began to plan. Rudy knew what his parents had tried to help Sherlock up to that point. Mycroft and he were of the same thought—this required sterner stuff than what his they were made of._

 _Even now he could not believe what they did, and mentally cringed at it when he thought of it. They went back to his home that afternoon, stood in their kitchen and told his parents that they were taking Sherlock with them for the rest of his visit. They made it clear that if they weren't allowed to do this that they would not be responsible for what ultimately happened to the boy. And with Sherlock there they could not say more on the subject. Mycroft and Sherlock were going to be taken into town to buy books and a few other sundry items. In the meantime his uncle would stay and explain what was at stake. All Sherlock heard was he was going with his big brother and he was gone to pack._

 _When uncle had done with his parents and gotten the brothers back to his home he started by contacting one of Euri's original doctors, requesting names of therapists. The names were given to his people to vet completely. The names that passed this test were given to his uncle to be spoken to personally. Only then were they given the assignment, commanded as though it was coming from the Queen herself._

 _It was funny he thought of it like that then._

 _Mycroft had tried to point his brother in the right direction for months. He was too vulnerable to pain; too open to the effects of another human being. If he was to live up to the great potential he saw in him he had to get control. His uncle had approved his thinking in this. Better to look to the future, put the wretched past behind them._

 _So, ever since the day his baby brother laid his head on his shoulder and frightened him by watching Sherlock nearly surrendering to the pain he had pushed him:_

 _"_ _Caring is not an advantage. Not if it is going to cost you your life."_

 _"_ _All hearts are broken, Sherlock. You will die a thousand deaths if you invest your heart at the cost of your mind."_

 _"_ _You are smarter than this. You cannot bring your friend back with tears."_

 _"_ _Protect your mind Sherlock. If you must excise a person from your heart do it. You will be of no good to yourself or anyone else. And people can't stay by your side forever waiting for you."_

 _"_ _Not even you Mycroft?"_

 _He hadn't expected that. He took a breath, "I have to go to school soon, so no, not even me. We have to go on Sherlock. We hope to see you again, but if you're not there, we move on without you."_

 _It would work for a while. A few days with glimpses of what he could be would glimmer through. But it wouldn't last and he would be back at it—right up until he had to leave._

 _Now he was frustrated. Even with Uncle Rudy's power, it wasn't until late Friday before they had someone who had a way to find out more about what they were dealing with and how to handle it. Until then he had entertained hopes of being able to leave this in other more capable hands, and go to the symposium retreat. But with the time constraints and the lack of trust that they had in his parents to succeed, that was no longer practical to entertain._

 _The next morning Mycroft took his brother out to walk the trails near the home while the therapist arrived and set up the equipment. Sherlock regaled him with tails of what he and Redbeard used to do. Mycroft found it hard to contain his irritation at points. Some of the stories he knew for a fact were things he and Victor used to do. Others he couldn't imagine and he wondered was he making it up out of whole cloth. When Sherlock noticed and asked him why he was upset Mycroft told him that their uncle needed him to work together with him on a problem he was having with a project so he couldn't make the school trip we was going to go on. Sherlock never questioned it. He didn't know if that was a high compliment or if the boy was beyond all hope._

 _And you can't just ask a child what the problem is, even one as intelligent as Sherlock. Trust has to be established. Parameters had to set. Then when you were dealing with all-day sessions, sessions that Sherlock did not know he was participating in, there were the questions of mikes, other listening devices, ear pieces for instructions, and so forth, technology far ahead of its time was being used and that had its own problems. The doctor insisted on breaks in the schedule for naps, meals, simple rest, etc. The doctor was going to be working out of the guest quarters for long stretches of time so he had to be provided for. It was late into the evening on Saturday, after Sherlock had been put to bed before they could test the system for the week to come._

 _Tedious, exasperating, dull, provoked, wearisome, piqued, wearing, nettled, he was trying to use a new word each times he found his temperament swung to the extreme. It was now Thursday and through the mind-numbing process the doctor insisted on they had found out:_

 _Sherlock had no memory of his best friend Victor (he knew that before the first session)_

 _Sherlock also had no memory at all of Eurus. (He hadn't known that)_

 _He knew they had new house, but not what had happened to the old one. Why did they move from the other house? Sherlock's answer: It got too old (Mycroft put his head in his hand at this and shook his head)_

 _Redbeard has always been a dog. He'd been at the old house, but had been taken to gra-mére's house, but it died and so couldn't come to the new house. (Mycroft called her to ask if she had gotten a new dog or had one die. She said that she hadn't and he'd asked no further on that subject, telling her Sherlock had been telling stories.)_

 _Each of these points had been wearing to find and flesh out. After each day when Sherlock had been put to bed then the conversations with the doctor began in earnest. It was a near thing at times keeping this all from the boy, but they were managing it, especially when one considered the nature of the boy—his curiosity, his sensitivities, his natural abilities in understanding things, but for Mycroft the plan wouldn't have worked. Sherlock submitted all his faculties to his brother. Mycroft's approval or disapproval of his actions was the point on which everything rested and he used it to steer his brother through each day. He, who didn't need much sleep, found himself going to bed exhausted every night._

 _After their conference that evening, Mycroft parted from the others, walked the grounds for a while and then headed down to the kitchen. His uncle had an actual butler and he had been cleaning up for the night when he walked it. Henry took one look at him and sat him down and prepared him a sandwich, cut him a slice of lemon tart and poured him a large glass of milk, all the while questioning him about how his visit had been going, pretending that it was the extended holiday that they claimed._

 _The respite had been nice. For a while he pretended that he too wasn't privy to everything that was going on in that house. That he didn't feel the burden of the boy, or that his prospects were being driven away because of him and his parents' inability to act._

 _When he left the kitchen it was with a little more peace, a little less weariness—all of which disappeared like breath over a lit candle when he heard Sherlock open his door as he went to his room._

 _His hair was wild and even at a glance he saw that his eyes were beginning to swell. He'd been crying. So—a nightmare. He was shuffling into the hall slowly, disoriented, and Mycroft realized that he hadn't heard him in the hall, but was trying to get away from his dream. Perhaps, if he moved quietly, he could get inside his room and close his door. Maybe he would bother uncle Rudy instead._

 _"_ _My? My?" The older brother released a breath. He hadn't used that name for him since he was barely able to walk. Whatever had caused his bad dream must have been particularly upsetting. He released his doorknob and turned towards the call._

 _"_ _Sherlock, I'm here." Sherlock didn't respond immediately and he began to wonder if he was still in the middle of the dream. Quiet hitches in his breath gave away he was still crying so he went to the boy and knelt down, "I'm here Sherlock."_

 _"_ _Redbeard's dead."_

 _"_ _Yes, most likely he is"_

 _"_ _Why did he die?"_

 _"_ _I don't know." Then he took a moment then asked, "What do you remember?"_

 _"_ _I don't remember! I don't remember! He was chasing dragons and then he was gone."_

 _"_ _Chasing dragons are games of the imagination. There are no dragons. So what do you remember?"_

 _Sherlock wanted to be held and tried to climb into his arms, but Mycroft held him by his body, "What happened to Redbeard? Did you lose him by the water?"_

 _"_ _No. We stopped playing. But when I looked for him in the morning he was gone."_

 _"_ _That's not true. A boy…dog doesn't just disappear. They go someplace. Where did he go?"_

 _Sherlock eyes refilled with tears, "I don't know! I called and called for him, but he didn't answer me!"_

 _"_ _Perhaps he got lost in the water."_

 _"_ _No!"_

 _"—_ _Because if it was an accident, no one would blame you. Accidents can happen to anyone."_

 _"_ _No! No! He just disappeared!"_

 _The doctor didn't want him to pursue this line of questioning, at least not at this point, but he thought it was a legitimate one. Hearing Sherlock deny this, when he couldn't remember anything, was not what he wanted to hear._

 _In the meantime Sherlock made another attempt to climb into his arms._

 _"_ _No. No. We're not done here. How do you know he wasn't lost in the water?"_

 _The child stopped reaching, the tears in his eyes making them sparkle. He was trying to think, "We always leave the water together. Mummy said to do it to be safe."_

 _Blast. It made sense. How was this boy still seeing a dog?_

 _"_ _You must know something Sherlock? What happened to the old house?"_

 _"_ _It got old. We had to get a new one."_

 _"_ _Houses don't just 'get old!' How do you not know that?"_

 _Fresh tears spilled. He didn't understand why his brother was acting like this._

 _"_ _Everything gets old. You told me that."_

 _His own words being thrown in his face was the last straw. He stood up and stared down, "I tell you a great many things. This is what you've chosen to listen to." His frustration was beginning to overflow. Going to the wall he leaned against it and crossed his arms._

 _"_ _Do you know why I'm here, Sherlock? Hmm? Because I am the smart one in the family. Thank yours stars you haven't been burdened with that title. And it seems everyti—"_

 _"_ _I'm smart too."_

 _An eyebrow quirked up, "No. Sherlock, you are not. And you know how I know that? Because I was supposed to be going to meet with members of Parliament this week. My weekend was going to be me meeting the heads of some of the oldest institutions of learning in the world."_

 _"_ _You can still go—"_

 _Mycroft leaned over and scowled, "Last weekend you stupid boy, last weekend!_

 _Sherlock's soft features began to set, "I'm not stupid."_

 _The older brother stood up with a mirthless laugh and an eye-roll before leaning back against the wall, "Oh I beg to differ. YOU very much are stupid. Let's see how, okay? Oh, I know—I try to instill in you that caring is not an advantage. To explain to you that hearts are regularly broken and you shouldn't invest yourself in every pain you suffer. Do you listen to that? No. But you can construe that 'everything ages' and make it into a house being "too old" to live in. That definitely puts you into the 'stupid' category."_

 _Now the boy's voice grew plaintive, "No, I'm not."_

 _"_ _Oh, don't delude yourself. You see things that aren't there. Insisting everyone else must see them too. How many times must I say it: THERE. ARE. NO. DRAGONS. You swallow down whole this imaginary stuff, but you can't use that miniscule mind of yours to remember what happened to—"_

 _Infuriated Sherlock launched his whole body at his brother and with surprising force pushed his brother to the floor._

 _"_ _I'm not stupid! I'm NOT!"_

 _Mycroft sat up and gave him a malicious grin, "Sherlock, there are fish swimming in tanks right now that have more sense than you."_

 _And that was it—how a little boy heart breaks. He slapped his brother's face with all his might._

 _The sting of the slap chased away all the words. The older boy retaliated and slapped his brother back, hard. It knocked his brother to the floor._

 _And In that moment all Mycroft's anger was gone._

 _He had never hit his brother before and was horrified with himself. Sherlock was in silent shock, the pain would catch up; the terribleness of the things he'd just said would hit him:_

 _"_ _Sherlock, I didn't mean—"_

 _It was the first time he received the look. Sherlock's eyes were full of tears and even in the low light he could see the red of his cheek peeking through his fingers. But he was not sobbing. Instead there was pure hatred in his look, not a child's hate, but the contempt that belonged to a man—the years that followed proved him true on that. It was so powerful it stopped Mycroft from speaking, and when he reached for his baby brother, he was shoved into the wall before the boy went running to his room and slammed the door. He heard the key turn in the lock._

 _Mycroft dropped his face into his hands._

 _He had no idea when he approached, he only heard him speak: "You did the right thing."_

 _Mycroft look up at uncle Rudy, dressing robe on and neatly in place, tied nicely and hair brushed. He stood up and looked at him dispassionately._

 _"_ _The boy has to learn how to control himself and quit dawdling about with stupid dreams and useless pain that he cannot change. He certainly won't able to look to you—you'll be doing more important things with your time. He must learn to look after himself or what good will he be to anyone, even himself."_

 _For one brief shining moment, Mycroft saw his fist crashing into his uncle's mouth, but the moment faded and he looked at his brother's door rubbing his palm instead. He could hear the scoff in his uncle's voice:_

 _"_ _Knowing the boy he won't even remember any of this in the morning." Mycroft cut his eyes back and his jaw tightened, "Go to bed. Things will look better in the morning."_

 _Mycroft remembered the blistering look on his baby brother's face. Perhaps._

 _To this very day he hated that he did as his uncle advised._

 _One thing did come from their visit with uncle Rudy, for better and worse—Sherlock's feelings began to harden over, though as Mycroft only understood as he got older, they could never go away. However, his brother learned the lesson of sentiment. He honed it with him._

 _The little boy made no mention of what happened the next day, or any time afterwards, though his eyes burned like coals the rest of their stay, but he must have deleted the whole of the memory soon after, along with burning away every fellow feeling the two of them ever had, seeing as he obviously had no recollection of that time, something Mycroft didn't mind at this point._

 _Mycroft noted back then how Sherlock had missed him terribly when he had left at the beginning of term. The next Sunday when he went back to school he said a begrudging good-bye. The following term he couldn't be bothered to leave off reading in his room._

 _Mycroft never forgot._

He came out of his thoughts when he felt a hand curl around his. Anthea held the victualage that Mrs. Hudson insisted he take. He didn't even take home remains of an unfinished meal in a restaurant, but he came out of John's home as though he'd just come from the deli. Anthea grinned at his discomfort, but actual seemed intrigued by the contents in the bag. Knowing her, she'd get him to join her in eating it.

"We can have this after the skype meeting with Hong Kong."

"It will be too late by then."

"Actually your anteroom is set up for you to have a short rest, 23:30 will be your call time, plenty of time to get ready. And you know how those politicians like to try and talk themselves around your suggestions. An hour and a half of them and you'll be too energized for sleep and will have worked up a good appetite dealing with them. This," she tapped the bag, "will suit perfectly."

Mycroft just looked at her before lifting their hands and placing a kiss on the back of hers. She was right. Maybe Sherlock was too.

"Remember to rest yourself. It will be a long night."

She smiled, "I always do."

He looked back out the window after that. Sherlock's last words before he left were on his mind.

 _"_ _Our parents, Eurus, all of it, it will be made right."_

Mycroft would have to have his share in this.

All of it made right. All of it.

Anthea leaned over and looked at him, "Did something go wrong tonight?"

Mycroft turned away and smiled at her, "No dear. Things went well. Better than I expected."

"Then what was that expression of yours for?"

"Realizing I wasn't as smart as a five-year-old I believe," Anthea's confused expression made him smile even wider and he tighten his fingers around hers, "He was the one who had to teach me that holding on to those you love is important. I know that now. Now he says things can me made right. I think I may actually believe him."

"So a good time then?"

"With hopefully more to come."


End file.
